


Angel

by Amethyst97Skye



Series: Dragon Age One-Shots [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Spirits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:05:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amethyst97Skye/pseuds/Amethyst97Skye
Summary: Redcliffe Castle had seen better days. Dirt, disease and decomposing corpses filled the halls… and something else no one expected.





	

Beneath their feet lay the dungeons, a single, straight corridor comprised of coal-grey, uneven stone; its skin had been rendered smooth over the ages, and pillars of bronze-capped, slowly rotting wood lined the walls at irregular interval, each holding the boneless remains of liquefied candles in little black bracketed sconces. They did not quite touch the ceiling, but they had been encompassed by the stone at either side, and at their backs, leaving only their bleak, weathered faces free from obstruction. They were just as much prisoners as the wrought iron gates, the only decoration one might consider worthy of appraisal. There was no denying that the metal work was fine, despite the vast majority having been encased in rust so completely many bars looked bloodstained and blighted.

It was in this abyss that two sorry souls sat, waiting, dreading the inevitable. There were a dozen cells, but only half were serviceable. In the farthest southward cell, two gates down from the castle basement, sat a man who feared he would not live to see his twenty-sixth winter. His pale flesh had turned sallow and waxy with time, his black hair had become a nest of greasy tangles thick with grime, and there was no life in his dark, dead earth-brown eyes; once, they looked like freshly tiled soil, but now they were cracked, dusty and hallow like the deserted, decrepit remains of the Anderfels. His once navy blue and purple robes, lined with proud gold embroidery, were various shades of black, brown and grey. His name was Jowan.

Jowan opened his eyes. He had long since grown accustom to the dark, he no longer shivered from the cold and, for all his prayers to the Maker, his pleas for mercy had been ignored. He could hear footsteps, from several feet, and the clanking of armour. They had returned, and he was still conscious enough to fear the torture he knew they would inflict. He had no answers for them, but they grew bored during the day, without villagers to terrorise, and for reasons unknown to Jowan they left the last sole surviving prisoner alone.

_Best warn her, anyway_ , he thought and began a shuffling sort of crawl to his gate. He could not stand, he did not have the energy, but he had long since sworn to endure all that was within his power to face, for his friend – and he considered her as such – had tried to protect him, attacking corpses and soldiers alike without rhyme or reason.

_I just wanted to stop them_ , she said. _I just wanted to save you. Everyone deserves a second chance, Jowan._

Jowan had not told her his name, and she had never told him how she had learned it, but he did not expect her to, not when she could not remember her own.

_I know things, Jowan. Important things,_ she whispered, her voice carrying like a summer breeze in the stifling heat. There was nothing more pleasurable than hearing her speak, not for Jowan, but not in the basest sense of pleasure. It gave him strength, courage… hope. _They will come for us, Jowan. The Wardens will come. I don’t know when, but they will come, and you must convince them to save Conner. Don’t use blood, Jowan. Promise me._

He promised her, but her dazzlingly bright, white smile was fading from his memory because he could not remember the last time she spoke. To him, to herself, to the people and creatures she imagined. She tried to tell him things, about the Circle, about the Dalish, about the Dwarves in Orzammar… The list was endless, but it was comforting to go over it again, and again, and again in his mind. It gave him something to think about, something to focus on, a goal, a purpose, a means to keep the demons at bay.

_I know you’re a mage, Jowan. An apprentice._

_I know what you’ve done, to avoid the Rite of Tranquillity. I understand, and I can sympathise, but you acted rashly, foolishly. Blood Magic is forbidden for a reason._

_If you are sent into the Fade to save Connor, do not let the demon tempt you._

_This boy has a loving mother who would give her life to save him. Do not, I beg you, do not take that away from him. And do not sacrifice his free will or freedom for your own selfish desires._

Jowan listened, and she listened to him, when he could find the strength and courage to speak. He had taken to calling her Angel, a beacon of light sent to him, by the Maker, while he wallowed in despair. He was desperate but, as they talked, he had joked, once, that she could be the Prophet Andraste reborn.

_Not me, and not yet,_ was all she said, and Jowan did not know how to ask her to explain what she meant, especially when she, herself, did not seem to know. She was slipping, and Jowan had vowed not to let her fall. If he could do nothing else, he would see she emerged on the other side and tell the Wardens all she knew in person.

“Angel?” Jowan cleared his parched throat. It was like sandpaper against skin. Still, he called, “Angel? Angel, wake up. They’re coming! They’re –”

The door creaked open, just a fraction, but it was not the door to the basement. No, it was the door to the abandoned storeroom at the opposite end of the hall. Jowan was under the impression it did not open, that it was locked, or perhaps barricaded from the other side, because neither soldier nor corpse could get through. It was too dark to see a clear face, but Jowan _could_ see a pair of bright eyes as they peaked around the door. A few whispers later and orb of light floated up into and bobbed along the corridor, splitting into smaller spheres until the entire corridor was illuminate with a dim, paltry glow. It was still blinding to Jowan and, on reflex, he cried out as he shielded his eyes. It had been days – or had it been weeks, perhaps months, he did not know – since he had the strength to call upon his mana. Never before had he felt its loss so keenly.

“Come out where we can see you!” demanded a strong, young voice. It was not one Jowan recognised, but the tone… _Templar_ , he thought. Had he the energy, Jowan would have leapt for joy. Alas, he did not and settled, instead, for coughing upon his untimely gasp. He leaned against the bars to his cell, incapable of standing to ease the pressure against his chest, his body shaking as he hacked.

“It’s a prisoner!” called a second, a very delicate, beautiful voice that Jowan found belonged to a woman with short auburn hair, porcelain skin and bright blue eyes. The bow and arrow she held were stowed as she knelt before him. “Hold on. We’ll get you out of there,” she promised.

“Not so fast,” argued the Templar. He strode into view, clad in unadorned steel chainmail, and was without a helmet, showing a handsome face, fair skin and charming blond hair. If Jowan had to guess, he would have said the Templar was younger than him, and he would have been right. He did not wear the armour, but his walk was unmistakable and despite his relief it made Jowan shiver. “Look at him, his robes. He’s a mage, Leliana. I bet he was responsible for all this!”

“No!” Jowan shook his head so violently he saw stars. “No, no, it wasn’t me. It was Connor!”

“Connor? Arl Eamon’s son?”

“Don’t shout, Alistair. We need the element of surprise,” cautioned a third, another man, his voice older, stronger, darker. _A veteran_ , Jowan thought. _A… A Warden?_ He lingered beyond the range of the magical light, his body clinging to the shadows as if they were a part of him.

“No doubt he will soon wake the dead,” snapped a fourth, a woman, a mage judging by her staff. She looked wild to Jowan, with eyes like an owl, hair blacker than a raven’s feathers, and her robes – if they could even be called such – could barely be considered decent. Until now, Jowan had only heard rumours of Hedge Mages, so for him to actually _see_ one –

“They smell your fresh flesh, first.”

Something very cold ran down the length of Jowan’s spine. Never had he heard such a voice. It sounded empty, dead, but it was alive with emotions no one could name, and the voice was steeled with such certainty that, as foreign as it felt, Jowan knew it could only be his Angel. Before he could call out to her, the door – the westward door – was flung open and the dead charged. The redhaired archer fell back, drawing an arrow and letting it fly on every breath while the Templar, Alistair, unsheathed a dull shining, serrated steel blade, tugged his shield onto his left arm and dove into the fray.

Two more joined the fight, a man in heavy leathers with tanned skin and grey hair, and a man taller than them both; he had long white hair braided into dozens of complicated plaits, strange grey skin, a greatsword almost as long as he was tall, and he wore the heaviest armour of all present. The Raven-woman was indeed a mage, and she favoured freezing the dead, many of which were shattered by swords or shield bashes. Amongst the fray was a dog, a Mabari, covered in strange paint that, no matter how much blood stained his coat, always shined through.

When the battle was over which, while deafening load, did not take overly long, Alistair trekked back over to Jowan’s cell and demanded answers, and so Jowan laid everything bare. He told them why fled the Circle (but not how); he told them of how Loghain saved him from the Templars and what he wanted in return; he told them of Isolde’s need of a mage to train her son, who was “showing signs” – “Conner, a mage? I can’t believe it!” – and he told them how he poisoned Arl Eamon.

“Lady Isolde caught me and had the soldiers throw me in here. I didn’t know the dead were attacking Redcliffe until she told me, ordering me to lift the curse I’d placed on Connor. I didn’t curse him. I didn’t curse anyone. She didn’t like my answers. Then the soldiers threw Angel down here, and she told me –”

“Angel?” questioned the Veteran who was, by far, the eldest present; Jowan was not far off with his guess of forty winters.

“He means me.”

“What? The creepy one? Ow!” Alistair was slapped by the archer, who had since introduced herself as Leliana. “What was that for?”

“I’m only creepy when I have to be, you… royal bastard.”

Alistair went white, and he looked not unlike how Jowan felt when she turned her “creepiness” on him. The Veteran was trying very hard not to laugh, and even the witch – Leliana introduced her as Morrigan – cracked a smile. Only the giant, a Qunari – “This is Sten. of the _Beresaad_ ,” the Veteran declared – maintained any appearance of severity and suspicion.

Jowan decided to clarify the… situation. “Angel knows things, things she refused to tell Connor or whoever, _what_ ever, he is, now. She told me the Wardens would come for us, and she told me everything I just told you, but I don’t know how she knows. I don’t think she – sorry – _you_ know because you’re not quite… all there. No offence.”

“None taken,” and Jowan knew she meant it.

“So…” Alistair drawled, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “Any advice for us?”

“That’s it?” Morrigan’s voice was like silk, but her tone was sharp, like a dagger. Coated in poison. Jowan was well acquainted with the difference. “No interrogation? Nothing?”

“She called me a… a bastard.” Alistair blushed, and looked away.

“A royal bastard,” the Veteran second, clapping the Templar on the soldier. “That’s what I called him when he told me of his _noble birth right_ ,” he declared pompously, waving his hand in an obnoxious sweeping motion, as if testing out a new title as he revealed a painting unparalleled in its beauty. “We were alone.” He let that sink in for a moment before asking, “Angel, is it? Can you fight?”

“I don’t want to fight. I want to help.”

“You know the layout of the castle?” Angel nodded. “Then you _can_ help us, but only if you can protect yourself.”

“No dead weight. No sacrifices,” she agreed, ignoring the tension in the Veteran’s soldiers as she stood, her eyes straying towards Leliana. “No teasing, no games.” After a beat, she said, “Some-times they’re necessary,” accepting the daggers the Veteran passed through the bars as Leliana recovered herself, the change in her demeanor shifting to open the cell door. It creaked, groaned and collapsed to the floor when the hinges snapped; Angel caught it and lay the metal on the ground like one might stretch out a picnic blanket.

Suddenly, she was beside Jowan, feeding a pale hand through his bars to caress a cold cheek. “I’ll be back,” she promised. “I’ll get you home.”


End file.
